Jeeves and the Sleeping Attire
by LucylouKazoo
Summary: Bertie Wooster's having trouble sleeping. Jeeves finds a way to help out. Wodehouse Slash.


JEEVES AND THE SLEEPING ATTIRE

By Lucylou

_**Intro**: This was my first J/W yarn. Thank you to all my compatriots at IndeedSir, for encouraging me in this unhealthy lifestyle, and gobbling up all my art! _

CHAPTER ONE

The bally thing is, of course, dear friend, is that it really wasn't entirely intentional.

Naturally, if you wanted to take a rout that would most likely be traversed by Jeeves, then you'd have to take into account all those subconscious thingummies that I suppose reside someplace in the depths of the undertow of one's brain, and therefore attribute this whole mess to some plot I had cooking up in the old Wooster noggin for months before finally, cleverly putting my plan to action.

Now, I'm not usually one to argue with Jeeves. It has caused more than my fair share of frightening silences in the apartments due to his absence at one stubborn demand of mine or another, but nevertheless, I'd have to admit that though the Wooster brain has it's merits, that assumption would be giving me far too much credit. Though this mind of mine has it's talents, to have come up with this genius thing all by myself, well, that's more of Jeeves' forte.

You see,ironically, it was really old Tuppy's doing. The Drones club was having its annual fishing festival, unfortunately situated in the rugged countryside. This meant the certain absence from the outing, of one sleek-haired, immaculately attired manservant, a fact which kept me on edge for the entirety of the whole boring affair.

My understanding of Jeeves' dislike for the countryside began some time ago, and came with the sudden understanding that the man had become the central and most important figure in my life. I knew him, I realized, better than I had ever known a chap in my life, and bally better than any bird that ever I did cross paths with, even if ever so briefly.

It had been around that same time, when I had promised Jeeves that we should venture into the countryside as little as possible in order to preserve his contentment and to maintain his proximity to this Wooster (of course, it a way that hinted at my own dislike for said countryside, I wouldn't have wanted to affront him with the outright statement of my necessity for his presence) that I had officially sworn off women.

Unlike many of the old Wooster vows, this one had been kept for over a year and a quarter, a time I will admit to keeping mark of, because, it had also been around that time that I had realized that I was completely taken upon with a certain "love that dares not speak it's name."

To have denied it would have been impossible, especially considering my past mistaken encounters with love's pale cousin, affection. No, this had come upon me as a swift realization, which has, over the past year or so, taken up almost all of my resources.

My Wooster heart was then and remains to be, as bound as Whatsisname to that rock, to my own, brilliant, dark-eyed gentleman's gentleman. Jeeves. My world had come to revolve around this man, this quiet, cunning man, who seemed to have made it his personal mission to evoke in me the best of what I could ever have been, and to ensure that my life runs as efficiently as a well-oiled automobile.

My realization came first as a shock, and then it bally well turned to a volatile mix of fear at his discovery of my feelings, and apprehension as to how he might react. Of course, I will admit to there being…other feelings that joined the aforementioned ones. And, in the beginning, it was these feelings, of attraction and affection warring so deeply with fear of his departure or of my exposure, that would cause my heart clench at his entrance and exit from the room.

With the recent and horrendous exposure and imprisonment of London's great playwright (I refer, of course, to Mr. Oscar Wilde), the potent feelings I bore for my personal valet were, to put it lightly, quite unacceptable to the general public.

Our cozy home in the heart of London had been altered from it's formerly pleasant domesticity, to a sudden cavern of pitfalls and moments of bliss for me. My fear spanned as to whether, upon finding out about the love I harbored for him, he would give notice and evaporate from my life, leaving me utterly broken and alone, to whether an outsider might discover it, and expose me for my own criminal thoughts and imagined deeds.

But I get ahead of myself, the old Wooster mouth running off before the gun again. As I had said, it was really Tuppy's doing. The drones club had gathered on the rocky shore of Bingo Little's uncle's river, and we all milled about with our brandies, taking sport by occasionally tossing another member into the chilly waters.

I was folded onto a rock, surveying the scene and suppressing my yawns. I hadn't found interest in the Drones club in months, to be honest, and it was only upon Jeeve's urging that I consented to coming on this little fishing jaunt. He had hoped that it might restore a little of my former will to socialize, or assist me in sleeping, at least.

He had, for some time, begun mentioning, in his softly stated and subtly worded way, that I hadn't been my usual, upbeat Wooster self of late. He was, of course, referring to my constant fear of discovery and perpetual mooning over aforementioned valet, which had somewhat dulled my normally audacious behavior. I had begun to see my happiness as an unattainable goal, being that the hopeless cause was fueled by the necessity for a few illegal acts.

I had taken to staying in at nights, taking my pleasures with a good book and my faithful gentleman nearby, and avoiding the redundancy of the Drone's club and the monotony of the perpetual flocks of husband-hunting birds who occasionally looked to me for their sport.

It had begun to occur to Jeeves that I was only happy when at home. I agreed to come on the fishing trip, only to avert his concern ever so briefly, and because, in truth, it had become habit to follow his sage advice. Every time I don't, I seem to land myself in a giant, dashing mess.

Jeeves was not the only one to notice changes in my demeanor. The Drones were often ones to remark that I was mooning about like a sick cow, at times, and to inquire as to the name of "the girl." I had always shaken my head, giving them a solemn smile while raising my glass. "No girl," I'd respond, "Old Wooster's just grown up and quieted down." To which they would scoff and retreat to their somewhat inventive pastimes.

Tuppy had been among those to give me a good grilling on the subject. "You don't look well at all, Bertie," he said, while fearfully examining the slug that had crept onto his shoe. He was seated next to me on the rock. "Have you been sleeping?"

He turned to me, his eyebrows raised over the glass at his mouth. Dash it, this was a question I was not prepared for. "S-sleeping? Well, of course I have. Like a baby." He peered at me closer. Sod, he knew me too well.

"You're lying." And, indeed, I was. Between my fear of losing Jeeves and the dreams that woke me at night, sweating and muffling my voice against my pillow, my regular 12 hours of sleep a night had become closer to 5. I looked up at the sky, lit by a brilliant, wavering sun, and for the hundredth time, wondered what I was doing in the countryside in this infernal heat. It was bad enough in the city, where one could escape to a cool bath or the lovely shade of a building, but here, there were scarcely even any trees to give relief, and not one, innovative and enticing valet of mine to suggest we take our leave and rejoin the sane, city dwellers, via the replenishing breeze of the open car.

I imagined his straight-backed form shimmering through the sparse trees to my side, pausing to place his hand, very lightly at my elbow, and steering me back to the safety and promise of freedom at my auto, with him, his mouth quirked in that charming way, at his success in my rescue.

As it was, I still had to shake off Tuppy and give my regards to the Drones club president, before I swiftly returned home to Jeeves and London.

"You're right, Tuppy, I am lying," I said, sipping from my iced tea. "It's this blasted heat," I lied smoothly, gesturing to the blistering air around us as evidence to my lie.

"Hmm. I know. It's like trying to sleep underwater in a hot bath." Tuppy seemed appeased, and his beady eyes fixed on the heat waves that rose from off of the surface of the river. "But that's what I wanted to tell you!" He said, suddenly, clapping me on the back and causing me to choke on my tea.

"What, for God's sake?" I was ready to make my exit.

"I've found out how to sleep full nights without fail, no matter the cause! It's simply marvelous, Bertie. All the young gentlemen are doing it these days, you know, terribly fashionable."

I looked at him. "Really? Surefire restfulness, no matter the cause?" He nodded solemnly, which had always been an odd sort of face for Tuppy to make. This odd look was assisted by the presence of a purple beanie, perched on his head. I, once again, thanked God for Jeeves, recalling a similarly horrific headwear that I had chosen for myself at one time. I repressed a smile at the recollection of Jeeves' reaction to the green, feathered chapeau. It was something along the lines of "I was merely wondering whether they also stock the leather trousery that would undoubtedly set it off to full effect."

I was snapped back into reality by Tuppy's solemn face, yet again. "Yes, Bertie, it's infallible. You have my word."

And that, dear friend, is where the inevitable, conscious or subconscious, began to take shape.

CHAPTER TWO

"You remember that filly with the blonde hair and the penchant for, well, more landed gents?" Tuppy's voice had lowered, and he was speaking with a conspiratorial whisper, to this Wooster's troubled interest. "You remember, Victoria!"

A slight glimmer of recollection formed somewhere in that ruddy subconscious of mine, and I remembered the blonde, a young bird who stole poor Tuppy's heart before up and leaving him for a colonel, if I was correct.

"Ah, yes, I remember now, Tuppy. You were daffy for her, if I'm not mistaken. Completely smitten." He frowned at me, swirling his drink again, which seemed to be, from this Wooster's point of view, a good deal stronger than iced tea.

"Well, yes, I suppose you could say that. Alright, I was in love, Bertie, and that conniving…Female… absolutely destroyed me. For weeks I couldn't sleep, I couldn't eat- and, Bertie, you know how I do love to eat- well, I was just a wreck, Bertie, an absolute wreck."

"My condolences, my dear old Tuppy. I feel I have neglected you as my fellow member of the Drones."

I did feel terribly, having fairly much dropped out of the social scene since my realization over a year ago. I hadn't missed it at all, in truth, but now I felt a smidgen of guilt for thus abandoning my old friend.

"Oh, Bertie, that's beside the point. We all have to grow up someday. But, as I was saying, you're not looking well at all, and if you want my advice, I've got just the thing to have you sleeping as soundly as you please once more!"

I must admit that I looked at him agog. Tuppy's schemes tend, normally, to run amok, point in case his little disaster with Plumbo Jumbo that one time, but he seemed in earnest in this particular case.

"Well, Tuppy, I'm all ears. Do enlighten this Wooster to your miraculous sleeping technique."

He grinned, in that way that Tuppy has, all teeth and smugness, and I found myself missing Jeeves' slight curl of amusement that I had come so to love.

"Well, Bertie, you see, I heard about it from Puggsley Wiffham, who told me that all the young gentlemen have taken to it. When I asked around, it seemed as if I was the only one who wasn't participating in this little practice. You see, Bertie, there's no better method for a restful night, than to sleep in the nude."

I looked at him as levelly as this surprised Wooster could accomplish, and fought my sputtering to ask, "T-Tuppy! Are you quite certain that this-this…practice is entirely appropriate for a gentleman to engage in!?"

Tuppy looked disappointed. "Whaddoyou mean, 'inappropriate,' Bertie. I'll tell you, if you had about three times as much brains up there in that noggin of yours, I'd have to say that you're sounding a lot more like Jeeves when you go off on saying things like that!"

"But, Tuppy, can you honestly say that all the gentlemen are actually slipping off there sleeping attire and taking their evenings rest in…" I lowered my voice to match his conspiratorial whisper, "..The nude???? "

"Ho there, Bertie, Tuppy. What are you two lads discussing?" It was Barmey, who folded himself next to the two of us, joining us on the rock.

"Well, I was simply explaining to Bertie, here, about this new gentleman's tradition of sleeping in the nude."

"Tuppy is convinced that simply everyone is abandoning modesty during their restful hours, while I'm dashed sure that this is all a lot of fiddle faddle."

"Oh no, Bertie," Barmey interjected, "It's true! There's no better way to sleep soundly after a long night, especially if one is troubled."

I looked back and forth from the two of them, skepticism writ on my face as clear as day. It was true that these two seemed to be often troubled by fair-weather birds and stubborn potential in-laws, but could it be that this Wooster had been out of the company of gentlemen other than his own personal attendant that the rules of sleep attire had changes so drastically? True, it had become somewhat of an age of decadence, what with the Americans and all, but sleeping in the nude? I thought not.

"But, well, Barmey, what does Croft say to all this?" I was, of course, attempting to sound casual as to the reaction of Barmey's personal valet, to this whole sleeping situation.

"Oh, Bertie, Croft is a professional. All the members of the Ganymede Club read their dratted book. They're each and every one of them up to date on the current trends among all us lads. I'm sure Jeeves wouldn't be abject if you started taking on the practice, yourself!"

I was alarmed at how easily Barmey had seen through my carefully worded question. "Jeeves? Well, Barmey, Jeeves is a professional…I suppose you're correct that he probably has some inkling as to this current trend." Come to think of it, I wondered why Jeeves hadn't mentioned such a thing. He was usually the first to express his opinion on the recent actions of my fellow Drones Club members, and often made his objections quite clear, in that charming, roundabout way he has. This, though, he had never even mentioned.

Either he did not disapprove of the newest fashion, or… I repressed the thought that, perhaps, he felt that mentioning it might put the idea into my head. Was Jeeves fearful that I might, indeed, start sleeping in the nude? No, I shook the bally idea from my head. Jeeves, as I knew quite well, feared nothing, save the occasional trombone, but still, the idea lingered.

Long after I had made my hasty exit, and I was driving home, I felt the weight of the previous night's lost sleep, pressing against these Wooster eyes. My sleep had been broken by one of the more pleasant interruptions to my much needed rest. I had been tormented with a dashed realistic dream, starring yours truly, and featuring prominently, if I recall correctly, the presence of that beautiful, quirking mouth, his calm, dark eyes, and, most vividly, the vision of the crown of his sleek, dark head as he dipped below my sightline. I shivered pleasantly at the memory, and pressed my foot a little harder against the gas pedal.

Now, having awoken when I did the night previous, I found it necessary to first stifle a cry against my pillow, lest I further awaken Jeeves, who, I knew, had most likely already been alerted to my wakeful state, and then move post haste into the washroom to calm myself and to, well, remove the evidence of my nighttime revelry from the ever watchful eye of my gentleman's gentleman, in order to spare me the humiliation of him finding my sullied pajamas or sheets.

This was how it was, night after night, lest I drank myself into a stupor or, on occasion, wouldn't sleep at all. I had tried restraints, attributing my sleep interruptions to the unconscious doings of my hands, but I found that my, ahem, release, and subsequent awakening was fueled by my own mind's visions.

There was a point when any Wooster would break, and I was nearing it. It had become an intolerable effort to hide my devotion from the object of my adoration, and the lack of beauty rest for this, normal devotee to the art of sleep, had taken it's toll on my mental health as well as physical state.

Driving home and feeling somewhat lost without the presence of my valet in the seat accompanying my own, I decided that I would sleep a full night tonight, even if it meant affronting my own misgivings and accepting Tuppy and Barmey's advice. This Wooster wasn't letting his modestly get in the way of his well-deserved rest.

CHAPTER THREE

_(**Author's note**: This chapter is from the perspective of our well-loved gentleman's gentleman, because 1. he never really get's to express himself in the wodehouse originals, 2. I identify more with him, but that could have something to do with stephen fry... and 3. because, as i discovered, writing in his literary voice is like eating a meal of frois gras with a truffle and duck bullioubase reduction, all on a garlic infused medallion of toast and served over a layer of field greens with balsamic vinegar and warmed goat cheese. )_

Being a gentleman's valet, unsurprisingly, had been an aspiration of mine from when I was quite small. The fact that all temperament and lineage pointed to said occupation is a mere happy coincidence, and one that, though I always enjoyed, I now have reason to give thanks for, each and every day.

The duties of a gentleman's valet, though I find them to be suited to my own sensibilities, also gives me my will as per my necessity to reside with a gentleman who is worthy of my respect and camaraderie, assuming I am emplyed by such a gentleman.

Upon immediate glimpse into the tumultuous life of Mr. Wooster, I ascertained that there would be little question as to the appropriate fit to the match of valet to employer. It was after some time, though, that I began to notice that my own strict morals pertaining to the relationship of gentleman's personal gentleman to his, well, gentleman, were becoming somewhat strained.

As the years in Mr. Wooster's employ continued to fall into the category of that of the most enjoyable years of my life thus far, I began to question as to, exactly, why I had become a friend to my employer.

Now, it is well known around London and the surrounding regions that Mr. Wooster is…eccentric. Of course, I have never imagined otherwise, and specifically chose to remain in his services due to the fact that I suddenly felt as though a long-endured boredom had lifted while in his presence.

There was, of course, his lightheartedness, and kindness of spirit, that lent their alluring qualities to my songbird employer. His necessity for my care was never in doubt, moving in me a stronger attachment and protectiveness of my employer's health and happiness that I had never before experienced.

In truth, I would have to admit to a somewhat Aristotelian bent on my connection to him, a yearning within me in his proximity that I attributed to my admiration of his character and fondness of his eccentricities.

His physical features, light of hair and thin of frame, lent him the not entirely false illusion of youth and innocence that one finds in the later correspondences of Wilde; the secretly published letters to the honorable Lord Douglas, of which I have a secret, treasured copy beneath my bedclothes, and often catch myself quoting under my breath.

It had begun to occur to me that my muttered quotations began to occur more frequently in the presence of Mr. Wooster, and I would often smile to myself, lowering my head as he sang an impassioned rendition of some bawdy sailor's tune, and breathe, half seriously, "…it is a marvel that those red-roseleaf lips of yours should be made no less for the madness of music and song than for the madness of kissing."

It had begun to occur to me that my admiration for the bond of love between Greek men, perhaps was due to my own understanding of such a thing. My Wilde letters spoke of Apollo and Hyacinthus, the adoration for one another, and the mutual friendship and understanding which they held, the love and devotion that I had suddenly sought and discovered in myself for Mr. Wooster.

In time, I found that I would scarcely part from my position of employ, than to pick up and relocate to the wild and rugged plains of the London countryside. Though little in my attitude changed upon my realization, as I am known for my professionalism and poise, I had begun to find it somewhat more difficult to contain the emotions I had for the eccentric young gentleman, as well as to control the natural and physical effect which comes of the inducement of lust upon one's person.

As a valet, it is not expected that one should become gripped with a sudden pleasurable discomfort upon the sight of one's young master engaging in any sort of pasttime, let alone while he is indisposed, and thus I had attempted to remain entirely discreet about my reaction to his person.

This is why I was so horrified to find, upon my entrance into Mr. Wooster's bedroom this morning, to bring him his tea and paper, that he was entirely unclad, forgoing even the barest sheet or undergarment, and quite noticeably engaged in what had to be an extremely potent erotic dream.

Knowing one's gentleman as I do, it becomes easy to spot when the aforementioned gentleman is troubled. Over the past few months, Mr. Wooster had become a quite noticeable presence in our apartments. Having previously spent a good deal of his time at social engagements, I had marked the sudden change with interest. Though he seemed in good spirits while at home, and his appetite never faltered, it had begun to occur to me that, perhaps, Mr. Wooster was finding it difficult to sleep.

This I had ascertained due to the fact that my quarters are located down the hall from his own, lest he require my services at any time. Because I had recently had some difficulty finding sleep, myself, of late, I had become attuned to the noises of restlessness that emanated from his bedroom. The light beneath his doorframe regularly switched on and off, and I could often hear him curse with inadvertent vociferousness as he struggled to open his bedroom window, or bemoaned the ghastly heatwave that had settled over London for the past month and a half.

Though I had toyed with the idea that Mr. Wooster was, perhaps, in love, I would often find myself gripped with sudden terror at the prospect, denoting his eventual departure from our happy home. It had not fully occurred to me that the reason behind Mr. Wooster's restlessness could be attributed to uncontrollable arousal.

Like that which was personified both in and before me.

My mouth had become dry at the shocking sight of my master's indisposition, and, point in fact, the source of my own desire and adoration, as he arched his body against the mattress with a cry. His tousled, sandy hair was a mess upon the damp pillow, and his fingers clenched at the bedsheets, pulling them out from where they tucked into the mattress.

He was, in truth, beautiful. His mouth was parted and breath sighed from his lips, his cheeks were flushed and his body contorted with pleasure.

Such was a sight I had often dreamed of, and I had never even contained the concept of this fantasy becoming reality. By some miracle, I had been granted the forbidden glance towards the one thing I had longed to see in my deepest heart.

For a moment, I was paralyzed. Swallowing with some difficulty, I prayed he hadn't awoken to the sound of my harsh gasp upon my entrance, and I made to pivot and remove myself from the object of my temptation and adoration, when I heard his voice hitch upon a word.

And what a word, truly, not a word at all, but a name. At first, my ears and heart and mind warred with the falsities and rationalizations that flooded me, but again, he uttered it brokenly and with such passion and emotion that I felt tea splash over the brim of the cup I was clutching and drip down the back of my hand.

"Jeeves…."

CHAPTER FOUR

I had stood rigidly framed in the door-frame of Mr. Wooster's bedroom, feeling

the warm tea drip down the back of my hand and the delighted pounding of my own heart as it attempted to flutter free of my ribcage, for a good thirty seconds,

before I had shakily placed the teacup on the dresser tray, and haltingly turned towards the ragged voice.

His eyes were shut, still, and his beauty had faded none in the brief interim in

which I had attempted escape. I gathered composure, and wet my dry mouth, before inquiring, in a voice soft enough not to wake him if he was, truly, still asleep, "Sir?"

But response came there none.

My hands were gripped, shakily, against one another behind my back, and my

heart remained at the frantic pace that it has escalated to upon my entrance. I had always been generally astute, and possessed of the ability to ascertain the meaning behind the actions of an employer in suitably short time, and now, I could examine the situation with utter and unwavering clarity. Of course... I could. Mr. Wooster was dreaming... And the contents of his dream were those of a normal, erotic encounter that occurs in every human's irrational mind... and this dream happened to contain...

me. Myself.

I could no more attribute this realization to that of sleep-induced irrationality than I could stop the quaking of my hands or the irrepressible surge of hope that flared to life with the mention of my name. I certainly had tasted his name upon my lips

in such a situation, though more often in complete wakefulness, while simultaneously cursing my disrespect for my honorable employer in reducing him to an object of desire. But now, there were decisions to be made, and actions to be taken or avoided.

His form thrashed on the rumpled duvet, and I was gripped with the sudden question as to why Mr. Wooster had opted to entertain this particular fad of sleeping in the nude, if not for the simple purpose of torturing me. I had made a point not to mention this new eccentricity to him, in the hopes that he wouldn't fancy it himself and take to it, rendering me stumbling and stuttering over his morning coffee, gripped with barely-restrained desire and mortification at my own response to his unclothed person.

I felt myself sigh wistfully at the writhing figure on the bed, my hands still clenched together behind me in a concentrated effort not to touch him.

"oh! Jeeves!"

This sotto voce murmur was surprised now, though still broken with his lust, and the sound caused me to inhale sharply, my hands clenching against one another. He was still asleep, and his hips were undulating in circles in the air, his head thrashing on the pillow.

I was, at the time, well aware of the breach of privacy that my remaining presence had induced, but I could not physically compel myself to turn and retreat, despite the certain knowledge that if he were to wake, he would certainly be apprised of the situation post haste, denoting my proximity and the prominent bulge below my waistline.

The implications of Mr. Wooster's dream were, by no means, causing a little stir within my breast, as well as another organ located further to the south, as the subject of this particular fantasy (me) could mean a great deal, the foremost being the subject of my very fervent and secretive hopes and dreams.

Bertie could be as smitten with me as I of him.

I had already made the assumption that his lack of sleep was most likely due to a multitude of dreams like his current, and couldn't repress a smirk at the thought that, perhaps, he had attempted to sleep in the nude in order to banish them in favor of uninterrupted sleep, when hedonism such as unclothed sleeping can only heighten one's sensual dreams. I know him too well, at times. But, of course, I had never seen him make THAT face...

Without realizing it, I had gravitated to the bedside, unable to be as far away as the door. Now, if I could have borne it, I was able to reach out and touch him. As if compelled by that dangerous thought, I took a breath, and sat on the bed. My hands gripped the edges of the bed, tight enough to cause my knuckles to whiten, and I half turned to regard him, still panting on the bed.

The smell of his cologne (a scent I had selected specifically for him and which suited him terribly well) and the remnants of his evening tea still on his fast breath, the subtle sent of his hair and the bedclothes, proved to be too much for me at this

proximity. The air was dense and golden, lovely with the deep want that pervaded the room, and his breathy moans cut through the silence, compelling me to bend at the waist and breathe deeply the scent of the crook between his jawbone and neck, a place I have long coveted.

I could tell when he awoke, so tuned was I to his breathing, though my eyes were closed at the touch of soft skin of his neck against my lips. There was a sudden gasp, and my normally loquacious employer abandoned words for the more satisfactory means of communication through an unrestrained and subtle moan of longing that reverberated against my tingling mouth.

I allowed my lips to travel up the expanse of skin to rest at his ear, soft and clean, where I dared to taste the delicate space beneath his downy lobe, eliciting from him a choked, "Jeeves???"

Reluctantly, I straightened, which served to better admire him in his wakeful state from a seated position, but my traitorous hands remained where they had gravitated of their own accord- on his arm and chest. His breath was still ragged and deep, and his eyes held that bewildered look I had grown so fond of. I couldn't help but allow a small smile in return, as I answered his query with one of my own, "Sir?"

His mouth hung open for such a time as I was wont to dip down and take advantage of this glorious esplanade with the intrusion of my own mouth, but, unfortunately, before I could do so, he regrouped enough stammerings to form a vaguely coherent sentence. "Y-y... Jeeves? Where... why... I'm... This is... are you-Are you offering... ? What I mean to say is... Are you really... here?"

It would not take someone so practiced in the arts of interpreting my employers words as I, to comprehend that he meant more by "here." I looked at him steadily, suppressing amusement at our current position: me in full shirtsleeves and buttling uniform, him in decidedly fewer garments and prostrate upon the bed in a simply... delicious pose.

"Yes, Sir, as it would appear to be in this case. And I must admit to a certain degree at both relief and elation at such a location. May I inquire as to your reaction to this situation?" As an afterthought, "Bertie?"

I knew, at that moment, that I had burned any bridges I had to my former life. This brought my heart racing to my throat in a sudden climb of clutching fear. If he were to turn me away now... Well, it had to be done. I could not have gone another day, loving him as I did, knowing the sound of my name impassioned upon his lips, without confessing my less than appropriate feelings towards the young Bertram.

Either I would live forever without him in misery, or he would accept and, wonder of wonders, return my affections, as I hoped fervently that he did.

CHAPTER FIVE

I could have imagined a more startling thing to awaken to, recumbent as I was in my state of undress, than the very object of my deepest fantasies and recent erotic nighttime revel, currently engaged in the tantalizing process of tasting the sensitive skin of my neck, but it would have been difficult. I transitioned so swiftly between the vivid nocturnal wandering, to the suddenly decadent explosion of reality that, frankly, it knocked this old Wooster's bean fully off kilter. Never had I imagined that the object of my adoration would have chosen this particular morning to affix his quirked and skilled mouth to my person. Had I known about the aforementioned affixation of the q. and s. tool, I would have arisen earlier in order to shave.

Good lord, but that mouth was talented. He wore his shirtsleeves, the crisp cotton held above his wrists with a tie, in order not to dirty the hems with his washing, and he smelled slightly of soap and earl grey, the tea he fancied for his morning, but lacked the caffeine needed for my awakening. I needed no caffeine this morning, though, as I had been fully awake from the moment I had come into the realization that this particular vignette was no longer induced by my slumber.

I soon found my footing in the ruddy conversation, and attempted to pull together a garbled response to his last earth-shattering epithet of wisdom. I was still incapable of answering his somewhat simple question. "What you mean to say, Jeeves old thing, is that... You are pleased with my person?"

Jeeves lowered his chin and peered at me from amused eyes then, the same pouted mouth he uses when he's attempting to deny the pleasure he derives from my afternoon session at the old ivory and ebony, and then he made a derisive sound in his throat that positively sang through the old Wooster blood. "Mmm, that fact, while understated, would appear to be veracious, Sir."

I surveyed my valet, then, with something akin to the everyday awe, amplified tenfold and ten-whatnot, and then, in a somewhat startlingly easy move for such a oddly clumsy bloke as myself, slid my hands into the silky hairs at the base of his neck, muttering, "Bertie. My name is Bertie," and then his mouth was on mine.

THE END


End file.
